Hannah & Emil

by Belinda Castles

  I was desperate to be out of the room, up on the sunny street. The man was taking his shirt from where he had hung it carefully on his chair and was pulling it on over his shoulders with little tugs of the fabric where it had stuck to his damp shoulders. What is the German? I was thinking furiously and then it came out of my mouth without the embellishments that bring courtesy to language. ‘I intend to look at Berlin. I am meeting a friend. I will return this afternoon.’

  It was true. I did have an appointment. A member of the SPD was to take me around a factory and on another day a hostel to see how the people lived. It was always their aim that I might report to someone who mattered the difficulties the German working people and unemployed faced, the constant intimidation by Nazis, the hardships imposed on the country by foreign debt from the last war. They were desperate or hopeful enough to think someone like me could help and I was happy to believe them.

  I unpinned a note from my case while they fussed over the baby and left my belongings tucked under my chair. ‘I will pack you some food,’ Frau Gunther said.

  ‘No,’ I said quickly. ‘I am meeting my friend for lunch.’

  The factory made buttons and was staffed by long tables of women embroidering, painting, sorting under low-hanging lights. The work was gruelling—it was heart-rending to see how closely they held the buttons to their faces, and how long the queue at the door of women looking for work, the most hopelessly countenanced those with little children at their side. I silently thanked Father for providing me with an education and went off to lunch with my associate, fatigued and feeling far from home.

  After an afternoon nodding at the back of a class for workers on the subject of Goethe, very little of which I understood, I decided it was time to break into my note at a street café on Unter den Linden. Soon a feast appeared before me: coffee, piles of bread, ham, pickles, cheese and, not slowing to think of all the hungry people I had seen that day, I demolished the lot. I ordered another coffee, while I watched the flux of traffic, the workers gradually replaced by the various gangs you saw in those times. Somehow one knew what group they belonged to in spite of the ban on uniforms. The Nazis went about in the largest packs and all had hair that was shaven either at the back or all over. The communists went in for a lot of shouting and the SPD were relatively respectable and watchful. A table of them sat at the next table along to me, men and women, talking conspiratorially, looking about them.

  A tide of people passed my table as the sky grew pale and the sun slipped behind the buildings. Most of them would not see as much food in the next two days as I had just put away in fifteen minutes. As I came to the end of my coffee I was aware that I should be getting home, that my hosts might worry, that it was rude to stay away too long. Oh, but I did not want to be in that room, much as I liked the Gunthers. How would one spend the evening in such a small space? Where on earth were they planning to put me to sleep? Just as I was resigning myself to the fact that however it was all going to be managed I would just have to make the best of it, a man with a blue cotton jacket and a bright red beard sat down at my table. He said in English, ‘Welcome to Berlin, Fräulein.’

  I hesitated. In France I might have bluffed it out. My accent in Paris was passable. ‘But how did you know I was English? You have not heard me speak.’

  He tapped his nose. ‘I know some things.’ He held out a hand across my plate of debris. ‘Viktor. Pleased to meet you.’ At the same time he waved his other hand in the air for the waiter. ‘Two beers, please. The lady looks thirsty.’

  I shook his hand. ‘I don’t really drink beer,’ I said.

  ‘You are in Berlin now.’

  Well, I thought. Here is an excuse to put off going back to my digs for half an hour, in any case. ‘It is my turn to make an assumption about you,’ I said. I had to speak loudly as an accordion player had started up at the next café along the pavement. The civilised crowd at the neighbouring table were casting glances in our direction. ‘I am imagining that you are a communist. Am I right?’

  The glasses of beer had arrived at our table. He lifted his, smiled and drank. He spread a hand, gesturing at the people passing by on the street, of whom there were now many. The pavements were jostling with groups of men and a few women, talking among themselves, looking at the other groups as they went by. ‘One in three of these people are communists,’ he said with a smile. ‘But I will tell you something, Fräulein. They will all go over to the Nazis before long.’

  ‘And what makes you so certain of that?’

  ‘I love my brothers, but they are a rabble. They really have things worked out over there. Have you seen the parades?’

  ‘But surely what you believe comes into this? Either you believe in a fair share for all, to a greater or lesser extent, or you believe in that rot they come out with.’ I was drinking a little fast out of nerves. ‘Surely you see that they are mad?’

  ‘Oh yes, you and I know that, but I am not so sure about my comrades.’ Our neighbours were staring at him openly now.

  Presumably at least one of them understood English. One of the young women was murmuring to the others as we spoke. ‘But do not worry.’ He leaned forward. ‘I will not go over to those brutes.’

  ‘Where did you learn to speak English? You’re very fluent.’

  ‘In London. I am a traveller.’

  I smiled. ‘Yes, me too.’ And we talked about London for a while, where he had been a German tutor, and our friends lost interest in us. After a little time I found myself paying for the beers, of which he had by now had two, along with my dinner. I would have to be more careful with money. If I threw it about like this I would quickly go through my travel funds and as yet I had no way to make more. The college had told me they might be able to put me in touch with the unions, who might have some translation work available, but for now my German was nowhere near up to scratch, and here I was chatting away in English. ‘Listen, Viktor. I am here to learn German. You must let me try at least.’ He agreed, and our conversation instantly became rather more basic.

  I stood to leave, thinking now I really must get back to the Gunthers before dark fell. The wide avenue was filled with people and voices and a number of clashing accordions. ‘I must go to the station,’ I said carefully. ‘My people are waiting.’ I felt that old impatience with being a stranger to a language. I was not myself when I could not say everything I meant. When we had spoken English, there had been an undercurrent to the conversation. There was as much meaning beneath the surface of our words as above it. Now I was reduced to a dull simplicity.

  ‘I will escort you. These streets can be a little lively at night.’ And so I found myself bustled along the Unter den Linden, arm linked with a red-bearded communist whom I half feared might transmogrify into a Nazi at any moment. Just then there came the blaring of horns along the street, and a lot of shouting, and the crowds began to push back onto the pavement as a procession of motorbuses filled with SA, brown shirts replaced by white, went by. They were singing loudly while the accordion players stood motionless, fingers resting on the keys, upstaged by the parade.

  ‘Aren’t political songs forbidden?’ I asked my companion.

  ‘They have changed the words. Listen. No mention of the swastika. It is all blue skies and green fields, as though they are farmers.’

  ‘Where are they going?’

  ‘To a rally.’ He stopped on the pavement for a moment amid the crowd, looked me in the eye. ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘what do you say? Let’s go along too.’

  ‘To a Nazi Party rally?’

  ‘Yes, naturally. I think you will find it interesting.’

  ‘Would they let us in?’

  ‘Perhaps we are fine young Nazis. What do they know?’

  Gracious, I thought, as a queasy thrill surged within me. ‘All right. How do we find it?’

  ‘We follow the procession. Look.’

  I saw that in fact a good portion of the crowd was following the parade along, as the motorbuses were tr
avelling at walking pace, and so we joined the flow, which was actually much easier than trying to stand still amid all the movement. We followed the procession down a side street to a hall and simply floated along with the crowd passing into the dimness of the building, my friend smiling all the time. He seemed to find the whole thing quite a caper.

  He guided me, a hand on my back, into a little knot of merry-looking types to the left of the stage. They nodded as we joined them and I had the impression they were here to make a noise. But, then, was there anyone here who was not? At the very front of the auditorium a row of the white-shirted brown shirts were filing out, forming a barrier between the audience and the stage. Then three men walked onto the platform and the audience began to settle. The large wooden doors slammed shut and the first of the men nodded towards the back of the room and launched immediately into a harangue, most of the words of which were lost on me. Had I better German, I would still have had trouble following. It was incredible—he simply began shouting the moment he opened his mouth, and the audience began shouting along with him. Repeatedly he shouted the words ‘Juden raus,’ which of course I knew, and the little gang around me began to brandish fists in the air and to boo and hiss at him and at the other audience members, who were cheering and stamping their feet. It was electrifying, to hear human voices make such sounds. To my amazement I quickly joined in and we were like cats in the night, bristling and hissing at those around us. The row behind us was pushing forward and the row in front could not move at all as they were buttressed by the line of SA in front of the stage, and so we were pressed more and more tightly, and the man on the stage shouted with ever more fervour and we booed so loudly that nothing anyone said could be made out. Viktor was by now jumping in the air, throwing himself forward, his formerly cheerful face contorted and ugly. It was by no means clear which side he was on.

  I had to stop making any kind of noise at all after a few moments because I was in danger of being crushed, and was trying to remain upright, steadying myself with a hand on the back in front. Then the members of our little cluster were suddenly shot sideways as the rows in front and behind converged, convulsed from the crowd into an area at the side where one could not see the stage, and so was almost empty, but for two SA, one either side of an open exit into the evening air. One lurched towards me, grabbed my arm and shoved me out of the door onto the metal fire stairs. I turned to protest and was met by the body of the next protestor to be ejected, followed by two more, Viktor left behind in the heaving mass inside the auditorium. The others were trying to push their way back in but the door slammed and we found ourselves on the relatively quiet street, listening to the muffled ruckus beyond the door. They began at once to bang their fists on the door but the fresh air had brought me to my senses and I stepped quickly down the stairs and away up the street in search of the nearest U-Bahn station.

  As I walked amid the people on the street I caught my breath. What on earth had just happened? It was a revelation how quickly a room full of people shouting could lead one to become heedless of safety, to shout and catcall with the ferocity of a picket. Now that it was over I felt the excitement drain from my body, leaving me utterly exhausted. Fortunately I came upon a station quickly and trudged down the stairs, feet aching, feeling in my pocket for change for my ticket. I was relieved to discover that my money was still there. It was as though I had lived through a flood, or a fire, and expected everything to be different now, to have to begin over with nothing.

  By the time I arrived back at the tenement I was past caring how I was to be accommodated. It was dark and the poor had surged towards me on the platform at Wedding station and so I felt compelled to walk quickly in spite of my sore legs and drained spirit.

  Mrs Gunther answered my knock so quickly it was as though she had waited behind the door all day. Once more she took hold of my wrist and pulled me inside. Her hand was cool and soft in spite of the hard work it no doubt undertook on a daily basis. ‘Fräulein Jacob, come inside. You must be very tired. Come in, have some warm milk with Trudel.’

  I stopped in the corridor, lit by a weak bulb. I mustered my last ounce of energy to find the words I needed, her hand still encircled about my wrist. ‘Frau Gunther, where will I sleep? There is no room.’

  She smiled shyly. ‘It’s all right. We have prepared for you. You are welcome here. You will see.’

  We stepped once more into the little apartment. I did not understand at first what I was seeing. The room was dimmer even than before, the window black with the night, though its ledge held a row of church candles in empty glass jars. I heard the little girl’s giggle. In front of me the table had been upturned, the cavity stuffed with blankets and cushions, and the girl sat in it, tucked in her father’s lap, drinking milk. I could just make out their faces in the candlelight, the girl leaning on her father’s chest.

  ‘Ernst is about to go out on his shift,’ Frau Gunther said quietly behind me. ‘We hope that this will be all right for you. It is really very comfortable. But if you are not happy on the floor, you are welcome to my own bed.’

  ‘Oh, no—it’s perfect,’ I said, as Herr Gunther stood, handing the little girl gently to his wife, kissing her on the forehead. I sat down myself in the warm space they had vacated, while Frau Gunther poured me some milk from the jug on the stove. They talked quietly on the other side of the door, and then her husband was away up the stairs, and she returned with the child and I did my best before I lost consciousness to tell her a little of my day.

  Emil

  DUISBURG, 1932

  It was the hottest day of summer so far, like a day from boyhood, though it was late in the season. Emil stood outside the factory in his shirt sleeves watching the peeling wooden boat judder along to the dock. There was Christian with his old blue cap and round spectacles, smoking his pipe as he brought her in. Emil dropped his own cigarette in the river. The water closed over it, a flat blue sheet of steel dimpling briefly.

  Schulman the funeral director fed his horses up in the yard. They snorted quietly. Good horses, he’d noticed as they came in, calm. Another time he’d see about the boy riding one, if the man didn’t mind the contact with Emil. Some were nervous of being seen with him since the election.

  Christian did not have a winch on his boat. He tied it to the pier and dropped the gangplank at the back. Emil saw the long crates straightaway, amid a pile of smaller boxes containing who knew what, and took an end of one while Christian took the other. He talked away in Flemish and lifted crates and tightened the rope, all the while puffing at the pipe. Emil had known him since his days with Siemens and had never seen him without it. He had smoked in the engine room and during inspections, when they were lined up in uniform for the company officials to look over a new ship. They’d shared a cabin. Every night the man packed a last fill before climbing into his bunk and fell asleep when it was almost done. He timed it beautifully even when they’d been into the schnapps.

  They loaded the long boxes one by one onto a flat trolley on the high bank and began to steer it carefully over the grass, past the factory, up to the yard where Schulman waited with the horses. He acknowledged Emil and Christian as they loaded his covered dray but did not move to jump down and help. As Emil shook hands with Christian, the pipe still glued to his lip, Emil glanced up behind him, saw the venetians part in the window set high in the wall, gave a nod.

  Emil climbed in behind the boxes, pulled the flap up after him and bolted it, saw an old blanket in a corner and rolled it up to sit on it. He saw through the gap the boat reversing out into the river, engine labouring, and then all he saw was the plough of its wake, the river flattening again as the horses strained against the harness.

  He continued to peer over the low wall at the back of the dray as they bumped into town. It was busy now. Men hung around the streets, waiting for a spark, whatever they could turn into something. Schulman ploughed the horses through a crowd as though it was market day, except it was all men, men who should be in
work, and they were doing nothing but talking and eyeing one another. As they came to the crossroads that marked the boundary of the Jewish quarter, he saw a cluster of men he knew to be SA. A rabbinical student drew close to them, tall, pale, inward. One of them said something, lurching towards him, as though giving a child a sudden fright. The man stepped quickly into the gutter before hurrying into the quarter. The men were laughing as the dray passed by.

  At the back of the funeral parlour they unloaded the crates into the workshop. Schulman left the cart at the entrance to his courtyard, horses tethered, blocking the entrance. He took two hammers from a shelf behind him, handed one to Emil, and they began to prise nails from the crates with the claws. Emil opened the first crate and they stood over it. There was the coffin, pine, plain. He laid his hands on it, opened the lid, held it open with one hand while the other foraged about in the sawdust. Nothing. Schulman began another. They went through three more. ‘You think we have been swindled?’ Schulman laughed nervously.

  ‘No,’ Emil replied. ‘These are good people. If there was a problem, word would have got through. Christian would have known.’

  Then Schulman, his arms up to the elbows in sawdust, let out a sigh. Emil looked up from his own crate and waited. Schulman brought forth a long cloth bag, tied securely at one end, something long and hard in it, rolled up in a cloth. He reached inside and pulled out a rifle. ‘Emil, you are a miracle worker.’ Schulman balanced it for a moment across his hand and forearm. It was a Mauser. Emil knew how the butt would sit against his shoulder, the strength of the kick when it fired.